


go ahead and move along

by originally



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Groundhog Day, M/M, POV Kent Parson, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Leave, Parse," Jack says. Again.</p><p>Or: Kent finds himself stuck in a time loop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go ahead and move along

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achilleees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/gifts).



> Thanks to K for fixing my commas and Britishisms, and to H for talking the story through with me. Remaining mistakes and hockey fuckups are all on me. Thanks also to [Ngozi](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/) for allowing us to play in her sandbox.
> 
> Please see the end for content notes.
> 
> For achilleees, who prompted Groundhog Day. Happy Halloween and I hope you enjoy this!

“I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud,” Kent says. It’s an ugly shiv of a parting shot, sharpened with all those years of history between them, and he doesn’t even wait to see it land. He hears the door slam, though, as he heads down the stairs back to the party. He straightens his shirt and sets his shoulders like he motherfucking owns the place and resolutely doesn’t think about Zimms and that little blond kid creeping in the hallway. Kent Parson does not have regrets.

Three seconds later, there’s a solo cup full of fuck-knows-what in his hand and someone shoving a cell phone in his face and he grins for more selfies all the way to the door and out into the fucking freezing Massachusetts night. He waves some drunk bros away from the rental Porsche, starts the engine, and doesn’t look back.

*

Kent jerks awake to the sound of his phone blaring “All About That Bass,” which is Magsy’s idea of a funny joke but emphatically not Kent’s. Goddamn. He thought he had changed that yesterday; he had definitely spent at least an hour of the flight to Boston coming up with creative ways to get Mags back. He groans, groping blindly around on the nightstand until he makes it shut the fuck up by knocking it to the floor.

There’s something nagging at the back of his mind, a creeping feeling that something is wrong. He absently reaches down to rub the cat’s ears and then yelps. His cat. Who is in his apartment in Las Vegas and not in the Boston hotel room where Kent pretty clearly remembers crashing last night with Magsy snoring in the other bed.

“What. The fuck,” he says flatly. He scrubs his hands through his hair and looks around the room, which is unquestionably his apartment in Vegas.

He _cannot_ be in Vegas.

He has a game today in a city on the opposite side of the country. How did he even get here? Did he fly back this morning and black it out? He didn’t think there were red-eyes going east to west. He also didn’t think Zimms had pissed him off enough to give him some kind of mental break, but apparently here he is.

“Jesus, Parse, get it together,” he tells himself, fumbling his phone from the floor and swiping it unlocked. He hits ‘Magnusson, Jonas’ and drums his fingers on his leg as he waits for it to connect.

“I take it you enjoyed your wake-up call,” is what Magsy says when he answers, which is so far from what Kent is worried about right now that it takes him a second to remember what he’s even talking about.

“That’s really what you want to know?” Kent says, his voice coming out way higher than normal. “Not, like, where I was last night or where I am right now?”

“Uh,” Magsy says, “Parse, man, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but what the fuck are you talking about? Last night we went out for a couple of drinks and then I dropped you at your apartment, which I assume is where you are right now.”

“What,” Kent starts. “No—are you fucking with me? Last night we were in Boston. You’re still in Boston.”

Magsy makes a disbelieving noise. “Are you high? I’m not in Boston. The flight doesn’t even leave for a few hours yet.”

“Shit,” Kent says, because _what_. “Mags, you’re really not fucking with me?”

“I’m not fucking with you. Christ, Kent, are you okay?”

Kent tries to laugh but it sounds weirdly strained. “Fine. See you on the ice, man.”

“Parse—”

“Later,” Kent says, and hangs up on him. He stares down at the “call ended” notification for a couple seconds and then flicks back to the home screen, where the calendar says Saturday 13.

No, seriously. What the fuck?

*

There's an optional skate this morning, before they get on the road. Kent lets the crisp air of the rink and the feel of his blades cutting through the ice wash away his jumpiness, his unease. Afterward, Magsy flops down next to him on the bus and gives him the side-eye until Kent feeds him some bullshit about messing with him in return for the phone thing. It’s pretty clear that Mags isn’t swallowing it, but, in the end, he just smirks at Kent and says, “Did all the pressure finally get to you, Cap? That was a pathetic excuse for a prank, even for you.”

“Just trying to keep it on your level,” Kent says, which only makes Magsy's smirk more douchey.

Jeff leans over from Magsy's other side and says, way too loudly, “Sweet, did I hear Parser's cracking up? Who had money on this month, boys?”

Kent relaxes into the barrage of chirps. 

By the time they land in Boston, he’s feeling stupid for ever freaking out. He tells himself that the whole thing has to have been some kind of weirdly realistic dream. He’s just thinking too much about Zimms after all the rumors he’s been hearing about which teams are courting him, that’s all. 

To prove it, Kent goes out and rents a Lamborghini ( _not_ a Porsche) and drives down to Samwell. He roars up in front of Jack’s house and enjoys the admiring looks the car gets from the guys staggering along the sidewalk who have clearly been pre-gaming the—shit. There’s a party going on in the hockey house, music pumping and yard overflowing with people, just like in his dream. _Okay_ , he thinks. That’s a weird coincidence, but okay. He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror, pushes a few loose strands of hair back under his Aces snapback, and heads inside.

Even though he’s trying not to think about the dream, he finds himself instinctively heading for the room where he found Jack and that blond creeper kid last night. His eyes seem to zero in on them from the doorway, and Kent’s heart does this weird stuttering thing. There they are. Jack is telling a story that Kent can’t hear, looking serious and talking with his hands and sloshing his beer all over the fucking place just like he always did, and the blond kid is looking up at him with the kind of starstruck expression that puck bunnies always get right before they blow Kent in gross bar bathrooms. He watches as the kid starts texting, and Jack says something, and then he’s slipping his arm around the kid’s shoulders and taking the phone and they’re leaning close and Kent can’t fucking move. He’s never had déjà vu this intense before and he’s starting to get freaked out all over again.

“Ohmygod, you’re Kent Parson!” someone squeaks. Suddenly, there’s an Asian kid with a mouth full of metal brandishing a cell phone in Kent’s personal space, with some other dude trying to hold him back by his hoodie and telling him to chill. Across the room, Jack’s head snaps around.

“Gimme a minute, guys,” Kent says, meeting Jack’s gaze. “Hey, Zimms. It’s been a while.”

“Kent.”

Jack sounds wary, and Kent suddenly wants to make sure that the clusterfuck that went down in his dream doesn’t go down this time; he has to convince Jack to come play for the Aces. He forces himself to smile.

“Didn’t know you were—” Kent waves a hand to encompass the party. “We’re playing the Bruins tomorrow so I was in the area.”

“Yeah,” Jack says.

This is not exactly the most scintillating conversation they’ve ever had but the blond kid is still staring between them, wide-eyed, his fingers flying across his phone. Kent gives him a grin he doesn’t feel. “Mind if I borrow your selfie partner here?”

“Oh gosh, of course!” the kid says, sounding flustered. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Parson! I’m Eric. Eric Bittle, but the boys call me Bitty—”

“Bittle,” Jack says, and Bittle closes his mouth with a sharp intake of breath.

There’s something fond in Jack’s tone that Kent hates. Through gritted teeth he says, “Zimms, can we go somewhere private?”

For a second or two, Kent thinks Jack is going to say no. Then he gives a stiff nod and motions for Kent to follow him. They wind their way through the press of sweaty, drunken bodies, Jack parting sports bros ahead of him like fucking Moses with the Red Sea. Either it's Jack himself or Kent's face must be giving off some Zimmermann-esque 'keep away' vibes, because nobody stops them for a selfie. He trails Jack up the stairs, under the optimistic rope that's meant to stop exactly this kind of thing, and up to the landing, where some guy is making out with a girl in a Samwell Rugby shirt. They scatter when Jack clears his throat, and Kent would laugh if he weren't so tightly wound.

Jack doesn’t say a word until they’re in his room with the door closed. He sits on the edge of his desk, wringing his hands and avoiding Kent’s eyes. “Why are you here, Parse?"

“I was in the area,” Kent says again. “Can’t a guy just want to catch up with a friend?”

Jack sighs. “Not when it’s you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Kent says, temper flaring. He takes a step forward.

“Nothing, sorry. I just…” Jack trails off uncertainly. “I just mean… we don't talk. It’s not as though we _are_ friends any more, Kent.”

It’s true, but hearing Jack say it feels like a sucker punch. “That hurts, Zimms,” he says, aiming for sarcasm, but it comes out embarrassingly earnest. “I just came down to see how you’re doing, what your plans are, you know.”

“My plans?” Jack says, looking up sharply. “You mean you want to know who I’m signing with.”

 _Fuck it_ , Kent thinks. Time to try for honesty. “Yeah. I think you’re making a mistake with the Falconers. Come to Las Vegas.”

“I don’t—how did you know that?” Jack says. “Did your management put you up to this?”

“The fuck?” Kent blurts. “ _No_ , Zimms, Jesus Christ. I came for me, because I think we could be good together again.”

Jack makes a choked noise, halfway between a laugh and something dismissive. Kent doesn’t even think before he’s crossing the space between them and kissing him, hungry and insistent and determined to get that look off Jack’s face. Jack smells familiar, like he did in the dream, like he always did, and he opens for Kent like a wound. Maybe they’re not eighteen any more, but their bodies still know how to fit together. Jack grips Kent's hips hard enough to bruise and Kent presses his thigh between Jack’s legs, savoring the way he gasps.

After far too little time, Jack pulls back. “Kenny… I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Kent says, chasing his mouth. “Jack, you can, we can, come on. We could be so good together.”

“No—”

“Come on, Zimms, can’t you see it?”

“Kenny—”

“Parson and Zimmermann on a line together, just like old times.”

“Yeah?” Jack says, and he suddenly sounds angry. “Just like old times, eh?”

“Jack—”

“ _No_ ,” Jack says, scrambling away from Kent. “Just like old times, Parse? Don’t you—fuck, don’t you remember what happened last time?”

 _Shit_. It’s going wrong. “It wouldn’t be like that again—”

“No, it wouldn’t, because I worked to get to where I am—”

The thread that Kent’s temper is hanging by snaps. “You think I haven’t worked?” He’s yelling and he can’t stop himself. “While you’ve been holed up in Nowhere, Massachusetts, playing at captain with your team of fucking midgets and losers?”

“Get out,” Jack says, his voice cold as ice. Kent tries to pull him close again, but Jack shoves him away so hard that he stumbles back and has to catch himself before he falls. “You can’t—you don’t come to my fucking school unannounced and corner me in my room—”

Kent’s stomach churns. He’s dizzy with déjà vu. “Zimms—”

“—and expect me to do whatever you want—”

“ _Jack_. Listen, I—I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for showing up like this and I’m sorry for getting mad but I miss you. I miss you all the fucking time.”

Jack is staring at him, his blue eyes wide. They’re both breathing hard like they’ve just come off the ice, and the pause spins out between them, a gaping, unbridgeable chasm filled with all their history, the good and the bad.

“You always say that.”

Kent closes his eyes. “Zimms, that’s because it’s always true.”

Jack is quiet for a long time before he says, “That’s not enough.”

“Yeah?” Kent says. “Well, fuck you then.” It’s not a clever comeback, but he’s winded, like he took an elbow to the chest, each word a body blow.

He never has been good enough for Jack.

“Look at us, Kenny,” Jack says, sad-eyed and tired-sounding. “We make each other worse.”

Kent laughs as derisively as he can manage, stepping forward into Jack's space again. “I'm looking. Here's a home truth for you, asshole. You're the one who fucked it up _last time_ , not me. No one made you pop those pills.”

“Leave, Parse,” Jack says. His hands are clenched into fists.

“I’m going. Tell Bad Bob I can get him tickets to a real game any time he likes.”

Kent storms down the stairs and out the door, snarls at the bros ogling his car, and tears away from the curb so fast that the tires squeal, burning rubber onto the asphalt.

The first thing he’s going to do is change that fucking alarm.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

“Fuck,” Kent says.

This time, when they get to Boston, he shuts himself in the hotel room with his iPad and the free wi-fi and all the tiny bottles of alcohol from the minibar and googles every version of ‘freaky-ass groundhog day shit’ he can think of until he passes out on the bed.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

*

Kent buys _Groundhog Day_ on his iPad and watches it on the flight to Boston while Magsy drools on his shoulder. If the movie is right, all he needs to do is either fuck Zimms or make an ice sculpture of him; he’s not totally clear on which.

*

It turns out that making a snow Jack Zimmermann is harder than it sounds.

*

“Leave, Parse,” Jack says, eyes blazing.

*

“Leave, Parse,” Jack says, sounding choked up.

*

“Leave, Parse,” Jack says.

“Why, so you can go fuck your jailbait groupie?” Kent throws back, and takes vindictive pleasure in the look on Bittle’s face when Jack yanks the door open.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that—”

The crunching noise Kent’s phone makes when it hits the wall is satisfyingly loud.

*

For once, Kent wakes up before the fucking phone and turns off the alarm before it can assault his ears. Sadly, the date on the calendar app still reads Saturday 13. He lies on his back and just breathes for a long moment.

“Fuck it,” he says eventually, throws on some clothes, and leaves his phone on his bed with his cat.

He finds an exotic car rental place in Vegas and hires another 918 Spyder purely for nostalgia value. Then he gets onto 95 heading north with the top down and just drives. Once he’s out of the city and onto the open road, the V8 howls into life and Kent is flying, sand and scrub and distant mountains whipping by around him and two tons of sleek German machinery purring under him.

Predictably, he gets pulled over. It’s in some podunk shithole on the edge of Death Valley, and the cop takes Kent’s license without even a raised eyebrow. Kent doesn’t try to talk his way out of the ticket. Who the fuck cares?

He drives, stopping only for gas and coffee and to collect three more tickets. He drives until it gets dark and the sting of the wind on his face is the only thing keeping him awake. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, but he’s crossed the state line into Oregon when the fifth patrol car flashes its lights behind him. There’s a heartbeat where Kent plans to pull over again, accept yet another ticket, and carry on driving just to see how far he can get.

He floors it instead. The Porsche only takes a couple of seconds to get up to 150, and Kent can’t even hear his own manic laughter over the roar of the engine and the wind in his ears and the wail of sirens echoing off the mountains.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

*

It occurs to Kent that maybe he should have been counting how many times he’s done this. It’s been weeks. Months, maybe. If there’s one thing that’s become clear over the past fuck-knows-how-many days, however, it’s that he's not doing a great job of fixing this on his own.

He spends six iterations of Saturday trying to convince Mags that he’s stuck in some kind of shitty time loop. By the end of the seventh day, he can accurately quote everything Magsy is going to say as he says it, right up until he gets pissed and switches to Swedish. It’s fucking creepy, and it’s probably no wonder that Mags gets freaked out.

“Parser,” he keeps saying, “Parse, man, are you okay? Are you on something? Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

People always jump right to Kent being fucked up; he knows they put the rumors about him and Zimms and rehab together and come up with blow or fucking meth or something. He stares at Mags and wonders whether everyone is just waiting for him to make a mistake, to lose control. He wonders whether Jack is waiting for that.  _Well, fuck them_ , Kent thinks. There’s nothing wrong with him apart from this repeating shit. Kent Parson doesn’t need anyone’s help.

*

By the fourth time Kent ends up in a jail cell, it's starting to get old.

*

Kent wakes up with the sudden realisation that _he’s in Las Vegas_.

He blows off the rink and goes to the Bellagio instead. It takes him at least a week of blowing off the rink and going to the Bellagio to memorize the sequence of roulette results that will get him escorted away by security when he cleans up, and then another week to perfect the natural-looking pattern of wins and losses that will let him keep the money. He doesn’t even need the goddamn money, but it feels good to win it anyway.

He spends a bunch of it on the presidential suite, a shitload of champagne, and some extremely expensive rentboys.

When Saturday loops, he moves on to blackjack at Caesars Palace.

*

It’s been a while since he actually went to see Zimms.

He spends the whole of one loop writing down everything he can remember from that first time, which is not much besides being in Jack’s room and nearly tripping over Bittle out in the hall. He does remember getting beat at flip cup by some chick and having to hold a sign, though.

It takes a few goes around the loop and hours of practice to get good enough at flip cup that he can destroy Lardo.

“Leave, Parse,” Jack says.

*

The next time, he tries giving her a close game instead. They spend the rest of the night chirping each other and laughing and getting wasted and Kent doesn’t think about Zimms at all. When 6am comes and the loop resets, he’s lying on the roof with Lardo, sharing secrets and a joint. It’s the best day he’s had since this thing started.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

*

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack says to Bittle, “but that party took up two issues of _The Swallow_.”

“Swallow, huh?” says Kent as he strides across the room, and he barely gives Jack time to register what’s happening before Kent is on him, gracelessly smashing their mouths together. The kiss is pure aggression and Kent pours all of his anger into it, all of his frustration and loneliness and jealousy, all of his self-loathing, all of his consuming, awful want. Jack is shocked into kissing back for a second or two before Kent's teeth sink into his lip hard enough to draw blood. He shoves Kent off him, looking scared and _really_ fucking mad as camera flashes go off all around them and the room erupts into chaos.

That version ends in a broken nose and a pretty spectacular black eye. Kent bleeds all over the rental Audi and laughs until he’s crying, wet and ugly and desperate.

*

Kent wonders idly whether finding out if Meghan Trainor is somewhere within travelling distance and going and fucking shooting her is a good use of one of these goddamn days.

*

Kent drives a McLaren 12C down to Samwell and considers changing tactics. Maybe he’s interpreting the movie wrong and Jack is not the one he needs to fuck.

Since Jack always disappears once Kent starts posing for selfies with people, it’s not exactly hard to get Bittle on his own. After four go-arounds at the party and one Saturday spent reading his Twitter and watching his vlog once he lets slip that he has one, Kent knows exactly what to say. He corners Bittle in the kitchen and turns on the Parson charm hardcore, putting all his lines about baking and southern belles and Queen Bey into action. Then he leans in close to Bittle, looking meaningfully at his lips and back up to meet his eyes.

Bittle blushes a very bright shade of red and runs the fuck away. Kent stares after him, open-mouthed.

“Swing and a miss, brah.”

Kent turns to see Jack’s friend, the shirtless guy with the pornstache and the denim vest who is always out on the porch when he gets here, leaning against the doorjamb and giving him a calculating look.

“Wrong sport, _brah_ ,” Kent says, yanking off his snapback and running his hand through his hair. He suddenly feels exhausted. “The fuck just happened?”

Pornstache shrugs. “Like I said. Looked to me like you struck out with Bitty.”

“No shit,” Kent says sarcastically. There’s no point trying to deny it, and this won’t have happened tomorrow anyhow. He throws himself into a chair and downs the cup of suspicious punch that Pornstache wordlessly hands over as he sits down next to Kent. Kent wracks his brain for the guy's name.

“I don’t think you’re his type, man.”

Kent raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? You mean I’m not a stoic Canadian asshole?”

Pornstache doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t mean to, like, pry,” he says eventually, “and you don’t know me, so feel free to tell me to fuck off, okay? But, dude, when Kent Parson, golden boy of the fucking NHL, is in my kitchen blatantly hitting on my bro, not even checking if anyone is watching—is there something going on? Are you coming out?”

“No,” Kent says. He thinks that over. “Maybe. Shit, I don’t know. I’m so fucking sick of everything.”

A bunch of drunk bros troop into the kitchen and out through the back door, laughing, and Pornstache fistbumps each of them as they pass. Once they’re gone, it’s quiet for a couple minutes. Pornstache looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. The beat of the music from the other room vibrates through Kent’s bones.

“I’m only going to tell you this because you look like a stoner and you seem pretty open minded,” Kent starts, jamming the hat back on his head just for something to do with his hands.

Pornstache tilts his head like _fair enough_. “Brah,” he says, “feel free. I’m everybody’s go-to for talking about sexuality and shit.”

Kent barks out a surprised laugh. “Jesus. No, I wish that was it.” He takes a deep breath, remembering all his attempts to tell Magsy. “I’ve been living this day over and over.”

“Dude, what?”

“This day. December 13th.” He checks his watch. “In… huh. In, like, thirty seconds’ time, Chowder and Nursey are going to epically fail to do a kegstand. Someone will yell ‘schwasted.’ Sometimes Bittle stops them, but I don’t know where he is this time after—you know.”

He makes a vague gesture intended to encompass himself and the kitchen. He and Pornstache stare at each other until there’s a loud burst of laughter from somewhere in the house and a drawn out holler of, “Schwasted!”

“Okay,” Pornstache says slowly, “that kind of thing happens around here all the fucking time, so that could have been a lucky guess. But I believe you.”

“You do?”

Pornstache shrugs again. “Sure I do. I mean, there are more things in heaven and earth, dude, shit. I wish Johnson was still here, though. He always knew someone who'd seen this kind of weird crap before. Oh, bro!” he adds, suddenly animated. “Have we already had this talk? That’s fucking trippy.”

“No, this is the first time. I don’t even know your name, man.”

“Shitty,” he says, pointing his thumbs at his chest.

Something stirs in Kent’s memory. “Wait, you’re Shitty? You should ask Lardo on a date.”

“Dude, you’ve talked to Lards before but not me?”

“Yeah, there was one loop where we played flip cup and became best buds.”

Shitty laughs. “'Swawesome. How about you tell me everything?”

“It’s a long fucking story,” Kent says.

Shitty makes an expansive kind of gesture with his hands. “I’ve got time.”

Kent tells him.

*

“So, let me see if I have this fucking straight,” Shitty says.

They’re both sprawled on lawn chairs out in the yard. Kent is shivering like it’s going out of style, but apparently either Shitty is drunk enough not to feel it or he just doesn’t give a shit; he’s still only wearing the vest and his fucking ankles are bare. It’s making Kent feel colder just looking at him.

“You drove down here in the douchiest car I have ever fucking seen hoping to convince our boy JZ to sign with the Aces instead of any other team, so he could come live happily ever after and shit in Vegas with you.” Shitty holds up a hand when Kent starts to speak. “Nope. Instead of which, you came in like a fucking wrecking ball, made out with him to show him what he was missing—which, FYI, sounds kinda dubious on the consent front, bro—then insulted him, his team, his goddamn relationship with his dad, which you and I both know is the touchiest fucking subject, and then stormed outta here only to find yourself doomed to repeat this shitshow for literally the rest of eternity? Have I summed that up accurately?”

Kent’s face feels hot despite the freezing air. “You forgot the part where Bittle eavesdrops on us.”

“Jesus Christ. Okay, well, you don’t have to worry about Bits, at least. He’s not gonna blab. But,” Shitty says, stabbing the air for emphasis, “dude, I don’t get what the issue is. It cannot be that fucking hard for you to interact with Jack without insulting him. You like him. You guys were BFFs and, like, fuckbuddies or whatever.”

“Were,” Kent says emphatically. He’s aware that he sounds petulant as fuck. “And I never said anything that wasn’t fucking true.”

“Christ,” Shitty says again. “You know, I’m not even sure I want to help you. It sounds like Jack made his feelings pretty clear—”

“It was more than just fooling around,” Kent says before he can stop himself. The words hang there in the cold air long after the white puff of Kent’s breath has faded into nothing. “I was in love with him. I miss him.”

Shitty exhales, a short, sharp huff. “Shit, son. This is wicked fucked up.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay then. How about the fact that you need to get your own shit together before you can deal with whatever the fuck is between you and Jack?”

“Thank you, wise sensei,” Kent says sarcastically. “Is this the part where we do a training montage?”

“You see, this is what I’m fucking talking about,” Shitty says, standing up. “Look, Jack is a good dude and I want him to be happy. If he can be happy with you, then I’m all for it. But stop messing with Bitty’s head just because you’re jealous. He doesn’t deserve that crap.” He turns back towards the house, but after a few steps, he calls over his shoulder, “Bro, _Groundhog Day_? Bill Murray had to stop being an asshole before he could get the girl. That’s the fucking moral.”

 _Fuck_ , Kent thinks. He lies back in his lawn chair and wonders if he could freeze to death out here before the loop resets.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

 _I’ll show him who’s an asshole,_ Kent thinks, and spends a whole Saturday calling every person in his contacts list and saying the meanest shit he can think of.

When he gets all the way down to ‘Zimmermann, Jack,’ his finger hovers over the call button for a long-ass time before he snarls and hurls the phone at the wall.

It doesn’t help.

*

Kent wants to hate Bitty. He should hate Bitty. Bitty is cute and southern and competition. Bitty lurks outside doors and listens to private conversations. Bitty has Jack Zimmermann taking goddamn selfies and, apparently, making pies, if his videos are anything to go by. Kent knows exactly what Zimms looks like when he’s crushing, and it looks like that.

The problem is, Bitty is really hard to hate.

 _If you can’t beat ‘em_ , Kent thinks, and uses up a whole bunch of loops on learning how to bake.

*

“—but that party took up two issues of _The Swallow_.”

“Hey, Zimms. Oh hey, you’re Bitty, right?”

Bitty squeaks.

Jack says, “Uh—hey, Kent?” like he’s not sure what’s going on.

“I’m a big fan of your videos,” Kent says, ignoring him and focusing the full Kent Parson megawatt smile on Bitty.

“Oh, um, goodness,” Bitty says, wide-eyed, his fingers stilling on his phone screen. “You watch my vlog?”

“Yep,” Kent says. He really wants to laugh at Jack’s expression. “I loved your recipe for red velvet cupcakes, man.”

“You did?” says Bitty.

“The apple cider vinegar really makes a difference,” Kent says, and suddenly Bitty stops looking like he’s worried he’s being punked and launches into a mile-a-minute monologue about red velvet. Kent grins at Jack over the top of Bitty’s head and the tiny smile Jack shoots him in return makes his heart stutter in his chest.

*

“Why have I never seen these videos of yours, eh, Bittle?” Jack says later, when the three of them are sharing a couch, Bitty half in Jack’s lap to avoid touching the stained upholstery and Kent with his arm stretched across the couch back, close enough that either of them could touch him, if they wanted to. Jack looks mellow, and comfortable in his own skin in a way Kent can’t remember ever seeing him.

Bitty flushes and stares at Kent with such a deer-in-the-headlights expression that Kent can’t help but laugh.

“Probably because he knew you’d chirp the shit out of him, Zimms,” he says.

For a moment, they teeter on a knife’s edge. He could say something cruel. He could tell Jack all of the fears and insecurities and secrets that Bitty has been confessing to his camera, the ones that it really doesn’t take a genius to figure out are about his epic crush on Jack. He could fire off any number of perfect insults crafted to cut as deeply as possible. He knows he could, because he’s used them before. He’s seen the fallout.

But he’s relaxed here on the couch and Bitty’s thigh is warm where it’s pressed to Kent’s and he’s looking over with pleading in his eyes, so Kent just says, “Besides, I didn’t know you had such an interest in pie recipes,” and watches Bitty breathe out.

“If you want to learn, Mr. Zimmermann, y’all have the real thing here to teach you.”

“Hey, I learned!” Jack protests. “That pie we made for class didn’t turn out too badly, eh?”

“Well, no, but I think there was more flour on us than in the pastry,” Bitty says, laughing.

“You should record that for your show next time,” Kent says. “Jack Zimmermann baking. Twitter would go nuts.” He grins at Jack and adds, “That’s a thing people do on the internet, for the technologically impaired among us.”

“Hey,” Jack says mildly. “Clearly you should record Parse here, since he’s such an expert.”

“Sure,” Kent says. “My video would get more views anyway.”

Bitty laughs and takes out his phone. Jack’s lips quirk into a wry smile and he doesn’t tell Kent to leave.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

The conversation he had with Shitty keeps playing over and over in Kent’s head even after other days fade in his memory. What would it even mean to get his shit together? What does he want his life to look like?

He still has—in a fucking shoebox under his bed, _Jesus_ —a bunch of photographs of him and Zimms back in the day. Some of them are snaps from parties: that infamous one of him sitting in Jack’s lap, shots of them smiling at each other, innocent ones of them drinking and joking together. There are some his mom took that last good summer, right before everything went to shit, of them practicing together, fucking around out on the ice. There are others that Kent took, shitty quality pics taken off an ancient cell phone where you can’t tell who it is if you don’t already know: disembodied collarbones and the curve of Jack’s spine down to his ass and, Kent’s favourite, a selfie attempt that just shows the bottom half of their faces, where Jack is pressing a kiss to Kent’s jaw and both of them are laughing.

Taking a moment to lament the fact that they never made a sex tape, he picks out a pretty R-rated photo where Jack is unrecognizable as anything but a random dark-haired dude but Kent’s face and his goddamn cowlick are clearly visible. Then he takes a picture of it with his iPad, posts it anonymously in the comments of every hockey gossip blog he can find, and obsessively refreshes a Twitter search of his name.

It doesn’t take long for the tweets to start coming in. They’re mostly not aimed at him at first, just a bunch of ‘omg have you seen this pic of kent parson and some guy’ as the links start to spread. But within thirty minutes comes the stuff he would rather not look at, the insults and slurs and ‘man, I always knew there was something off about Parson.’ He looks at it anyway; he wants to get it over with, like ripping a bandaid off of a festering sore.

When his phone rings, he’s expecting his agent or the woman who does PR for the Aces. He’s not expecting Jack’s face to flash up on the display.

“Hey, Zimms,” he says, aiming for nonchalance.

“Kent…” Jack starts, and then trails off like he doesn’t know what to say. “Have you—I don’t know if—there’s a picture.” His voice is small.

“A picture?”

“On the internet. Of us. I don’t—Bittle showed me, I don’t know how that stuff works.”

“Shit,” Kent says, refreshing the Twitter stream again. Sure enough, there are a handful of tweets that mention Jack and even one that links to a blog with photos of him that someone has drawn red circles on for comparison. The internet works fucking fast. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Fuck. What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to confirm it’s me, and then I’m going to deny it’s you.”

“You can’t—”

“I can,” Kent says. “Jack, I’m fucking tired of hiding this from everyone. I don’t want to do it any more.”

“Kent—Kenny, are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Kent says, although he’s not sure at all. Fear squirms in the pit of his stomach, hot and sickening, at the thought of facing the team, but he forces it to the back of his mind.

“Fuck,” Jack says again. Kent can imagine him running his hands through his hair, can imagine the look of horror on his face. “How did they even get this picture?”

“I don’t know,” Kent lies. “Look, Zimms, I gotta go deal with this.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “I, um. Good luck. I’ll support you if you make a public statement, Kenny. So will my dad.”

“Thanks,” Kent says, too surprised to say anything else, and Jack rings off.

He stares at his phone until the PR woman calls, and then there’s no time for thinking about anything but statements and denials.

*

Kent is so late to the rink that time that he misses the skate and everyone is stuck waiting for him. He expects a wall of noise when he gets on the bus but the team is subdued. Every eye is on him, though, as he makes his way to his usual seat.

“Shit,” is what Magsy opens with, looking at Kent with wide eyes.

Kent laughs, though it sounds forced as hell. “You’ve heard.”

“Parse, I’m pretty sure every hockey fan with a Twitter account has heard.”

“Jesus, Mags—”

“Shit, sorry, that wasn’t what I wanted to say. Are you okay?”

“I’m…” Kent starts, and realizes that he doesn’t know how to finish. The only thing keeping him okay is the reassurance that he gets a do-over on this jacked-up day. “I guess so.”

“Sorry about, you know, all the…” Magsy trails off, making some kind of indecipherable gesture, but Kent gets the picture. Locker room comments and lowest-common-denominator chirps out on the ice have always been part of the deal.

“I knew what I was getting into,” Kent says. It's true enough. Magsy awkwardly punches him in the arm and they sit in silence. He's a good kid, Kent thinks.

“Kent?” Magsy says after a little while, and Kent makes a noise of acknowledgement. “I just—I’m fucking Swedish, right, we don’t give a shit about who anyone fucks. My brother’s got a husband. You do you, man. You’re still a great fucking captain.”

He claps Kent on the back, and Kent feels the tension in his neck ease minutely. One down, the rest of the world to go.

*

Kent stubbornly reads his Twitter mentions right up until the reset. If he’s going to do this, he needs to know.

*

Kent wakes up with Meghan Trainor singing in his ear and the determination to get it right.

Jack’s phone rings for a long time before he picks up, and he sounds apprehensive when he says, “Parse?”

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent says. “How’s it going?”

“Um,” Jack says. Kent hears voices in the background, footsteps, and the sound of a door shutting. “It’s... I’m good. Ready for winter break, but I guess that’s pretty normal, eh?” He sighs, such a familiar sound that Kent feels warm all over, the last of his nerves melting away.

“Probably,” he agrees easily, stretching out on his bed and letting the cat climb up onto his chest. “You heading up to Montreal for Christmas?”

“In a couple of days.”

“Nice. Give your parents my love.”

Jack’s quiet, and Kent worries for a second that he might have blown it, but then he hears Jack breathe out and say, “Sure. They’d like to hear how you’re doing.”

“Would you?” Kent says softly.

“Kenny…” He sounds strained.

“I’m going to be in Boston tonight for the game tomorrow,” Kent says. “I thought maybe I could drive down and see you, you know? Catch up. If you want to.”

It takes Jack a long time to respond. Kent scratches the cat under the chin and waits.

Finally, Jack sighs again and says, “There’s a party at the Haus tonight so you shouldn’t come here. What time do you get in? We could grab a drink.”

Kent silently fistpumps. “That sounds great, Zimms. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “Uh. It’s good to hear from you.”

Kent is still grinning by the time he gets on the bus, and if Magsy chirps him all the way to Boston, he can’t bring himself to care.

*

Kent considers the cars for a long time before he decides that if Zimms can’t love him when he’s driving an $800,000 hybrid sports car, then he doesn’t want his love.

The drive to Samwell is familiar as breathing by now, and Kent lets his mind wander as muscle memory takes over. If this experience has taught him anything, it’s that he and Jack are really fucking good at pushing each other’s buttons and that, if he’s being totally, horrifically honest with himself, there’s a part of Kent that kind of doesn’t want that to stop. Jack is hottest when he’s flushed and trembling with anger, all his ice queen shtick forgotten and his full attention focused on Kent. It’s a rush, like driving too fast, partying too hard, beating the house. Like the roar of a crowd. Like the adrenaline spike the split second before a hip check, when you see the guy coming but there’s no time to react.

He wonders, briefly, what kind of person liking that makes him.

*

Kent is tempted to honk the horn obnoxiously when he pulls up on the frat row. He shoots Jack a text instead; he’s earlier than usual, but the party is already getting started, and he’s trying not to draw the kind of attention he normally does. Shitty is out on the porch, and Kent tips him a wink just as Jack steps out of the house. Jack’s eyebrows rise almost into his hairline. He slides into the passenger seat, looks Kent up and down, and says, deadpan, “Nice car.”

Kent laughs and pulls away from the curb. “Good to see you, too, Zimms.”

They end up at some hipster bar near the river, drinking craft beer from Mason jars. It’s not really Kent’s scene, but it’s either that or a student dive, and he’s not in the mood for wasted co-eds and sticky floors tonight. They sit without talking for a couple minutes, listening to the soundtrack of jangling indie pop and the wash of voices. Jack is looking at him with an unreadable expression, apparently waiting for Kent to make the first move. His features are softened by the mood lighting, and, just for a second, Kent gets a flash of the teenage Zimms that lives in his memory, awkward and nervy and so desperate to please everyone. Christ, they were just kids.

“You guys are having a good season,” Kent says inanely, when the weight of Jack’s curious gaze gets too much for him.

That’s clearly not the opener Jack was expecting. “I, uh. I didn’t know you kept up with the NCAA.”

“I have a vested interest,” Kent says, and then he grins. “Plus, I follow Bittle on Twitter.” He does now, at least.

“You know Bittle?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking hilarious. I also follow that one account that just posts pictures of your ass.”

Jack frowns. “I wish they’d take that down. I think our d-men have sent in some of those photos.”

“There’s one for me, too,” Kent says. “That’s how you know you’ve made it, man.” When Jack’s expression doesn’t clear, he adds, “What, you think my ass doesn’t deserve a Twitter?”

That startles a laugh out of Jack. “Are you sure you didn’t make it yourself?”

His tone is warm, teasing, and Kent feels himself relax, biting back all his comebacks about just how much Jack used to appreciate his ass. He orders them both another drink and says, “So, do you think you’ll make the Frozen Four this season?”

He can do this.

*

“Parse,” Jack says, after they’ve discussed Jack’s season, and Kent’s team, and Jack’s classes, “why are you here?”

 _Stop being an asshole_ , Kent thinks, meeting his eyes.

“I miss you.” It’s as baldly honest as he can put it. Jack makes a noise, and Kent adds, “No agenda, Zimms, I swear. Tell me to fuck off and I’ll go, but I miss us.”

Jack looks down at his hands; he’s slowly shredding a coaster advertising Narragansett, and strips of beer-damp cardboard litter the tabletop. Kent’s fingers itch to reach out and still his nervous energy, but he’s very aware that there are eyes on them. This is Samwell, not Vegas where no one gives a shit about hockey or hockey players.

“It’s been long enough,” Kent says. Even longer for him, but he’s not about to say that. “We’re not the same kids we were. It wouldn’t go like that this time.”

“I can’t,” Jack says, almost too quiet for Kent to hear. “I can’t do that again.”

“Okay.”

Jack raises his head. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Kent repeats. This is it. He’s given it his best shot and nothing. He’s doomed to do this forever. “I’ll drop you back at the house.”

Kent stops to chat with a bunch of girls in Samwell U hoodies on the way out of the bar. Jack rolls his eyes at Kent's shameless flirting, but he signs the notebooks they hand him and gives a few practised soundbites. When the girls pull out cell phones, he allows Kent to throw an arm around his shoulder and they grin into the cameras, though Jack’s grin is fixed and clearly practised too.

“Is it always like that for you?” he asks when they’re back in the car.

“Uh, kinda?” Kent says. “It depends where I am. I like to do it, you know? It’s nice that they care.”

“I’ve never been good with that stuff,” Jack says. “I mean... I appreciate them caring but I'm not like—I just want to play.”

Kent glances over at him; his leg is bouncing restlessly and his face is shuttered.

“I know. You never wanted any of the shit they put on you. Bad Bob’s legacy and all that bull.”

He starts the engine and they drive without speaking. The atmosphere between them suddenly feels weird, fraught; he shouldn’t have mentioned Jack’s dad.

“I’m thinking about coming out,” Kent says into the silence. The stupid car doesn’t even make any sound to disguise this. “Someone’s gotta be the first, man. And fuck knows there’s already rumors about me.”

Jack hisses sharply. “Are you sure?”

“I mean, maybe not the whole world all at once,” Kent says. “I'm gonna start with some of the guys, the ones who won't be douchebags about it. I won't mention you, don't worry.” He looks over at Jack and grins ruefully. “If they ask, I can sell 'unrequited boner for my best friend' pretty well.”

“I…” Jack starts, as Kent pulls up in front of the hockey house again. He goes to say something else, but one of the lacrosse guys out in their front yard yells, “Sweet ride, brah.” Kent laughs—because it is—and the moment is lost.

Jack laughs a little too. “I, uh. I should go inside,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry if I made things awkward.”

“Hate to break it to you, Zimms, but you being awkward isn’t news to me.”

Kent bumps their shoulders together, and Jack gives him a lopsided smile. He makes to open the door, but Kent grabs his wrist.

“Wait, Jack. I just—I’m sorry about what happened back then, okay?”

“Kenny—”

“Hear me out,” he says quickly. He has to get this all out now, or he never will. “I should have seen what was going on, done something about it. I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

Jack sighs deeply. He doesn’t pull his arm out of Kent’s grasp. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

Something loosens in Kent’s chest, some weight that he hadn’t even realized he was carrying until it’s gone.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jack adds. “I—I didn’t handle any of it well. You didn’t—you’re not the person I acted like you were.”

“I didn’t want to go first because you were in the hospital, Zimms,” Kent says. He pauses, catches Jack’s eye. “I wanted to go first because I was obviously the better player.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and then they’re both laughing, all the awful tension of the last couple of minutes draining away like it was never there.

Jack says, “Keep dreaming, asshole.”

Kent grins at him. “Hey, I guess we’ll find out next season.”

“I guess we will, eh?” Jack says, hand on the door handle. “See you around, Parse.”

He hesitates, glancing to either side, and then darts in to press a lightning-quick kiss to Kent’s temple. Before Kent can react, he’s gone, walking away toward the frat house, silhouetted against the glow from the windows. The Christmas lights around the porch sparkle in the darkness and the sea of shadowed bodies in the yard writhes to the muffled thump of bass and Kent rolls down the window, letting in the night.

“Zimms?” he calls, and Jack turns back. “Think about Vegas, okay?”

For a second, Jack’s smile is all Kent can see, wide and bright and genuine. Then he waves dorkily and heads into the house. Kent drives back to Boston, calmer than he can remember feeling in a long time.

*

“Because you know I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble…”

Kent might actually cry. “What the fuck do I have to—”

“Decided to keep that, huh?”

 _Wait_ , Kent thinks. That’s Magsy’s voice. He opens his eyes to see six feet of hulking Scandinavian grinning at him from across the room. The hotel room.

He grabs for his phone. The calendar says Sunday 14, and Kent breathes a sigh of relief so loud it can probably be heard back in Vegas.

“Jonas,” Kent says, spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture, buoyant with happiness, “I can tell you with absolute fucking surety that I never want to hear that goddamn song again as long as I live.”

“Aw, Parse,” Magsy says, “but I’ve seen your ass-twitter. I know you’re all about that bass, man.”

“Fuck off,” Kent says. “It’s not my fault your booty needs explaining.”

Mags laughs and heads into the bathroom, and the minute he’s gone, Kent reaches for his phone to set Jason Derulo as his ringtone. He’s halfway through when his own phone vibrates with a message.

_Good luck tonight –J_

_happy sunday zimms_ , he sends back, and laughs, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://originally.tumblr.com).
> 
> **Content notes:**
> 
> This is based around repeating the events of Parse I-III, so all notes for those comics also apply here. Additionally, there is an unwanted kiss; minor violence; some ambiguous allusions to suicide/suicidal ideation (but no explicit "on-screen" suicide); referenced homophobia; and referenced past addiction and overdose.


End file.
